Just a quick perusal,
So the lots are drawn—sober up now, as always you retain
Right of first refusal,
Free to sidle past—tho' all roads lead back to Dunsinane.
A fact brooks no argument,
Press on, as though each step may be your last.
Move along, there's no sense standing 'round to wait
For a sunken ship to self-explain.
All the senses rankle,
Never trust a thane bought and sold for a crude and selfish wage,
While a thousand Banquos
Spend their lamps in vain with swords drawn and valors unengaged.
The tides bode of fire and toil,
Carry on, and bear all things in good cheer.
Pity the usurpers, having much to fear.
(Were their fortunes left for hags to presage?)
Harvest of confusion,
Seeds of doubt the years o'er sown, now fully grown.
In their disillusion,
They know not where or whence their own flag is flown.
As they rendezvous with their own petard,
The Deceiver's trickeries lain out in most stark portrayal,
Michael leads his glorious, Praetorious guard
Where arcane "terpsichories" do not avail.
So the restoration
As before, now awaits its own "wall of wood."
A defoliation
Of the place where Birnam's verges stood.
As the songs of old do inspire again,
Though the house be desolate and the winter's night prolonged,
'Mid the frost and cold, there'll be fire again—
'Tis the hour to discern weak from strong.
"Maple, apple, oak, or larch?"
There's a tree assigned to you now.
Shoulder up, and forward march!
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